


just a touch of your love

by ericdire (aarobron)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 23:49:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17375513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aarobron/pseuds/ericdire
Summary: dele crosses a line, and eric isn't sure how to feel.or,"What's up, old man?" Dele says. Eric doesn't have to open his eyes to hear the smirk in his voice, or to know that he's going to be crushed by his weight in a matter of seconds. "Got a cramp?"But the pile on doesn't happen. Instead, long fingers spider across the inside of his left knee, the touch light and teasing. It makes Eric's cheeks heat up, lump in his throat rising at the same speed Dele's hands travel up the inseam of his jogging bottoms. His breath hitches, the feeling aching like a bruise as it dances up the sensitive skin of his inner thigh.That'senough.





	just a touch of your love

**Author's Note:**

> so, it's my first time writing for deledier and i'm quite nervous about it. please be gentle! 
> 
> a few details are definitely not right, but for the sake of this fic making sense, i had to put them in. call it creative license or something.
> 
> feedback always appreciated, and thank you for reading! x x

There’s arms around his neck, pulling tight until he’s forced to stand still, hands linked at the front and never letting go. Legs wrap around his waist, crossed at the ankles, and Eric has no choice but to hook his fingers under the bulk of Dele’s thighs and hold him there. 

“Get off me,” he grunts, but he still takes a second to shift the younger man’s weight and get a better grip. It’s not like this is a new thing – Dele climbs him like a tree at the best of times, and he’s learnt to brace himself for the impact before he even sees it. “You weigh a tonne.” 

“Think you’d treat your _winner_ with a bit more respect,” Dele says, dipping his head closer. His breath ghosts across the shell of Eric’s ear, voice a low timbre that carries vibrations everywhere. “I scored that goal, y’know. No one else.” 

“We’re all winners,” Eric says mildly. He can’t stop the grin stretching across his face; the buzz of adrenaline from a win is coursing through his body. The rest of the England squad is trailing behind them, shouting and yelling about the game. It’s a camaraderie, but Eric doesn’t want to be anywhere except in this little bubble. 

He half expects Dele to clamber off him as soon as they’re in the tunnel, but he doesn’t. He tightens the vice grip of his arms around Eric’s neck, knees pinching his sides, burying his grin into blond hair. He’s tactile, Dele. Even more so after a victory, and this might just be the biggest one of them all.

Semi finalists in the Nations League. Who’d have thought it, even after the year they've had? 

“You ever gonna let go of me?” Eric asks, rolling his eyes. He lets his hands slip a little, a play on dropping Dele, but all it gets him is a flash of choking, so he readjusts the younger man. Digs his blunt nails in, and feels the way Dele’s stomach jumps at the contact.

“Never,” Dele says, lips brushing skin when he speaks. Eric could imagine his eyes glinting, if he tried hard enough – banter and teasing, and maybe something a little deeper – but this… This is different. It sounds way too sincere, and it makes something in Eric’s chest ache.

One of Wembley’s backroom staff is holding the double doors to the dressing room open, and Eric nods his thank you. He doesn’t want to say the words out loud, because it feels like he’d ruin this tense thing between him and Dele, send it cracking and splintering all over the place. He doesn’t want to cut himself on the edges. 

But it doesn’t last much longer, anyway. Dele’s legs slide from around his waist, down his thighs until both feet are planted firmly on the ground. He still has his arms around Eric’s neck though, and he’s stretched up on his tiptoes. The grin on his face is practically radiating off of him, and Eric pats his hip once before he lets go.

He misses the warmth of the contact so much. Every now empty point is like a blast of icy air to the face, or a cold shower in the morning. He doesn’t know when he got used to it – or when he started to long for it. He also can’t work out if he likes it or not. 

“Thanks for the lift,” Dele says, fingers drumming a light rhythm to Eric’s chest. To the left, a little lower, and right over the heart. A spot that he seeks constantly; it’s probably just a natural reaction by now, not a single thought to it.

Except. Except this isn’t natural, is it? 

This being Dele’s face, tucked into the curve of Eric’s neck. His nose is cold from the chilly November air, making Eric shiver when it brushes against his skin, but the younger man doesn’t back away. Instead, he pulls Eric back and basically attaches his mouth to his neck, and…

And… Blows a raspberry?

Dele’s gone before Eric even has a chance to process what just happened, dancing away with his tongue poking between his teeth like it’s all one big game. It is, Eric supposes. Everything’s a game to Dele. Doesn’t take anything seriously except for the actual game of football, but maybe that’s why Eric is drawn to him so much. Opposites attract, after all.

He turns around so that all Eric can see is the 20 on his back, but he’s not aware of the older man’s eyes on him. Not at all. He just shrugs his shirt off, leaving the thin white undershirt where it is as he digs through his bag for his phone. Eric can see all of his muscles shifting, miles and miles and miles of smooth skin just barely hidden.

Well. It seems that Eric Dier is well and truly _fucked_.

.

It’s not like Dele has never touched him a little inappropriately before. He’s all hands and legs, wrapping himself around Eric like an octopus. Fingers curved around the crook of his elbow, or both feet in Eric’s lap while they watch a movie. Head pillowed on his chest or an elbow in his ribs, but throughout it all, one constant: Dele.

And his lips have definitely touched Eric's skin. Against his cheek, when he scores a beauty of a goal, or in his hair when he's falling asleep on the sofa. Colliding with his hand when Dele tackles him in training, and always by his ear ready to whisper something flirty. 

But it's just banter, isn't it? It's what best friends do. It's how Dele treats everyone, and Eric knows better than to think of himself as special.

Surely that mouth has been on his neck before. He'd remember it; chapped skin meeting that sensitive spot, where the blood runs hot and he can feel everything ten times more intensely. Maybe when Dele has jumped on him before, or an accidental collision. When he moves away from a hug too fast, too enthusiastically, and can't quite control the movements of his lanky body.

He must have felt it before. He must have. He just can't seem to remember a time when they did, and that's the problem.

Or, rather - the problem is that he can't remember a time when his skin tingled so much, simply from his best friend's touch.

.

The problem gets worse.

Eric spends weeks trying to forget about it, but every time a friend or family member or even a stranger compliments him on England's win, his mind spins into overdrive. It all plays back in his head: _Dele'sthighsDele'slaughDele'snoseDele'slips_.

Dele.

He dreams of it, too. Of the smooth expanse of skin, stretched out and waiting for Eric to touch. Of that grin, sleepy and stark against dark mornings, entirely for Eric. Of that mouth, brushing against Eric's own, teasing and gentle, teeth nipping everywhere while the older man feels restlessly helpless.

So, yeah. A problem.

It carves a hole right in the centre of his chest, deep and aching, big enough for the entire world to see. He knows there's only one way to fill it, but that's a thing that's big and real and _terrifying_ , and impossible. So impossible, because Dele would never.

"Alright?" Dele asks one morning in the training ground's cafeteria, sliding into the chair opposite Eric. Last night seemed to be the worst of them all; Eric had dreamt of him and then dreamt of him some more, until he woke up drenched in sweat and half hard in his shorts. He could still feel the ghost of Dele's touch from that days training, the kid still climbing him like a fucking tree. It was sending him crazy. "You look tired."

Eric doesn't reply, can't find a suitable one. Thinks about saying something flirty, something that could either be taken at face value and laughed off, or taken as the invitation that it really is. Thinks about snapping back with something sarcastic. Neither options are the right one, but he doesn't know what is, so he keeps his mouth shut and keeps eating his fruit salad.

"Did you not sleep well?" Dele asks, and Eric almost chokes on a grape. He wills the flush away from his cheeks and thanks any god that's listening that Dele can't see he inside of his mind right now, because every single detail his sleepy subconscious created last night is playing on a loop.

"Dreams," he says lamely, gesturing in mid air with his spoon. Dele is watching him curiously, like a specimen that's supposed to be studied, and the scrutiny makes all his blood rush to the tips of his ears. He gets flustered. "And stuff."

"Hope you're not coming down with something," Dele says, the comment absentminded. But then he frowns, as if he's thinking about his words, and his eyes clear. He leans across the table to rest the back of his hand against Eric's forehead. "You're a bit warm. Stay wrapped up today, yeah?"

It's easier just to let Dele believe it's a virus. In reality, his heart is in his mouth and his fingertips are aching with the need to touch, but that's... that's too much. So he nods, makes a show of tucking his scarf around his neck as he pushes his empty bowl away.

"Better stay healthy, anyway," Dele continues, getting to his feet and rounding the table. He waits expectantly, for Eric to stand next to him and walk by his side, the way he always does. The way it's always been, for as long as Eric can remember. EricandDele. DeleandEric. EricandDeleandDeleandDeleand- "Gaffer's bricking it about this game, pushing us twice as hard. Wouldn't be surprised if he keeps us here past midnight."

"Hope not," Eric says, rolling his lower lip into his mouth. He knows the comment is supposed to be a joke, but he can't help the spike of worry that shoots through his chest. He's barely sleeping as it is, and – as much as he loves Dele – spending _that_ much time with his best friend is just a recipe for disaster. Especially at the minute, anyway. "Was hoping for an early night." 

"Teacher's pet," Dele snorts as they step out onto the pitch. He takes a second to embrace the fresh air, face tipped up towards the sky even though it's not sunny. It's chilly, the air biting and drizzle in the air, but something about the light is making the younger man's skin shine golden anyway. 

If this was any other day, Dele's arm would shoot out, slapping anywhere on Eric's body he could find, declaring a game of tag. That's how most mornings start – playful and full of laughter, until Poch has had enough of watching them run about like school kids and calls them back to attention. But today, there's an atmosphere of seriousness and tension, so Dele's eyes are trained on their manager as they approach the sideline.

And he wasn't wrong: Pochettino is frowning, mouth drawn into a thin line as he barks orders and sends them off to their drills, Dele and Eric separated by yards and yards of grass stretched between them. It's a good game plan, honestly, because it's so easy to distract Eric these days. All you have to really do is put Dele within a metre's radius, and he's forgetting what he's supposed to be doing in favour of letting the younger man climb all over him.

It works like a cold shower. He soon forgets exactly what's been keeping him awake for the past few nights, because there's nothing in the way Danny Rose tackles him that could make him think of Dele. It's a welcome break, really. Exactly what he needed – space.

Training without having something weigh so heavily on his mind is nice. Really gives him that escape, the one that he _used_ to feel. It's all going so well, but god knows life never treats him that well.

Poch partners them up for the warm down, and Eric can feel his short-lived peace shatter around his ears. He doesn't mind, though. Not when he sees Dele jogging towards him with a bright grin on his face, like the sun finally shining between grey clouds, or a warm hug.

The sight of it makes his heart drop into his stomach, fizzing in the acid.

"Alright?" Dele says in a way of greeting, curling a gloved hand around Eric's biceps. He's staring intently at the older man's face, like he's looking for something. Eric doesn't know what, but he mustn't find it, because he just nods once and drops his hand. "Missed you."

It's a tongue in cheek statement. A joke, punctuated with a teasing wink, and no honesty to the words, but Eric feels the truth to it right down to his toes. He may have been distracted from the thoughts, but the ache in his chest was ever-present, and more than real. His eyes kept straying across the field, a flush spreading up his cheeks when Dele caught him staring.

Still, he rolls his eyes, flopping onto the grass opposite his best friend. He takes the hand that Dele offers him and leans back, stretching his muscles out with a stuttered sigh. He's just so, so tired. It's starting to seep into his bones now, making his head hurt.

"Five minutes and you can go home!" Poch shouts, voice louder than Eric has ever heard him before. He must really be tense, even if he's trying not to show it, but that doesn't matter.

Eric can go home soon. He can _sleep_.

He finishes his stretches and then releases his grip on Dele's hand, falling back against the ground with a soft thud. The dew on the grass is seeping through his hoodie, skin growing colder, but he thinks that if he just closes his eyes and lets his mind clear, he could fall asleep...

"What's up, old man?" Dele says. Eric doesn't have to open his eyes to hear the smirk in his voice, or to know that he's going to be crushed by his weight in a matter of seconds. "Got a cramp?"

But the pile on doesn't happen. Instead, long fingers spider across the inside of his left knee, the touch light and teasing. It makes Eric's cheeks heat up, lump in his throat rising at the same speed Dele's hands travel up the inseam of his jogging bottoms. His breath hitches, the feeling aching like a bruise as it dances up the sensitive skin of his inner thigh.

That's _enough_.

Eric is up on his feet before he can even think about it, recoiling from the touch like it burns. He can't stop the look on his face, betrayal meets confusion meets want, and he stares at Dele, stunned, for a full thirty seconds before he turns and makes a run for it.

.

He gets back to his house in record time (considering the unpredictability of London traffic), but for the first time since he moved in, it doesn't feel like a home. 

It's a hollow shell; uncomfortable chairs and plastic furniture, and his tea tastes all wrong, and the telly is too loud, and he can hear the roar of cars even though all the windows are shut.

He doesn't know what to do with himself.

There's a book on his bedside table that he left last night, so he sits cross legged with his back propped up against the wall and tries to read. It makes his spine hurt, and his eyes keep blurring over the words, but he's _trying_. He's trying to take his mind off of it.

It works until he hears the tell tale scrape of a key in the lock, his front door opening, and then footsteps thundering up the stairs. He could tell who they belong to anytime, anywhere, but it's the one person he doesn't want to see.

"What's wrong?" Dele asks, face like thunder and steely determination glinting in those brown eyes. It's the kind of face he puts on when they're playing a derby, or when H has challenged him in training. Almost terrifying. "You were up and out of training without a word!"

"Leave it, Del," Eric sighs, placing the book face down on the bed next to him. He spares a glance up at the younger man who's stood in the doorway, hands balled into fists, but it doesn't help. He feels more tired than ever. "Just leave it."

"I don't get it, Eric," Dele says. He doesn't sound determined anymore, just resigned, and he takes a few gentle steps until he can sit on the edge of the bed. Eric keeps his eyes on his hands, twisting restlessly in his lap. "Did I push you too far? With the touching-"

"Yes," Eric says without a second thought, finally lifting his head to meet Dele's gaze. There's no point in lying about it. That's exactly what this is.

Because he has pushed it, hasn't he? They've been toeing this line for months, since Russia. Since it all boiled down to the thrill of a semi-final and Eric's hand on Dele's ass, and really, that's all he can remember. He wonders if it's the same for Dele.

So yeah, maybe he was the first one to break those boundaries that have been in place since they met, but he's not doing _this_ , is he? This is all Dele. This is all him, and Eric doesn't want to be a pawn in whatever game he's playing. 

"I'm sorry," Dele whispers, voice hoarse and sounding uncharacteristically small. It brings images to Eric's mind, ones of a smaller, chubby cheeked version of his best friend, feeling angry at the world and not quite knowing how he fit in with the happy-family-Hickfords, and he feels pure guilt rush through his veins. "I didn't... I just thought..."

He turns to leave, head hung low like it's too heavy for his neck, but Eric gets a hand out before he can go anyway. Wraps his fingers around that thin wrist, grinding against the skin and making Dele's head snap up.

"Thought what?" Eric asks quietly, rising to his feet. He's taller than Dele, just a fraction of an inch, but right now he feels like he's towering. He wants to curl his arms around his best friend and protect him from this feeling, despite the fact that he's the one who caused it.

"I thought you wanted it," Dele says quietly, eyes not straying from Eric's face. He seems to find his voice again as he carries on. "For as long as I've known you, you've treated me so... so _different_ to how you treat everyone else. You hold my hand and you let me jump on you, and you open car doors for me, you turn up to training in my clothes, and I just thought... I thought you liked me, Diet. But it's fine. I'll leave you alone."

His eyes are glistening with unshed tears, but he smiles through the hurt that's written all over his face. Straightens his spine and squares his shoulders, like at the very least, he's going to go out with a little bit of dignity.

"No," Eric says eventually, when the silence has stretched on for so long it's uncomfortable. He still has his hand wrapped around Dele's wrist, keeping him place. "I mean, yeah. I do like you, Del, I always have, and that's the reason I've been so weird. Because it's going to be hard, isn't it? It's impossible."

He doesn't need to add _for two footballers to be together_ , because Dele hears it anyway.

"Hard? Probably," Dele agrees, nodding. He has a thousand yard stare in his eyes, but his cheeks are flushing, body lighting up from the inside out. "But it's not impossible. Because I've known you for almost four years, and I think I've loved you for every single second of it. You're the one person that I really feel like myself around, the person who I'm closest to in the world. That's not going to change, is it? And then we figure the rest out later. Take it a day at a time."

Eric is stunned into silence. He doesn't know when Dele turned into the thoughtful one of the pair, when he became so introspective - but then again, Dele always gets what he wants. That fierce determination runs deep within him. And one other thing...

"I love you, too," Eric says.

The truth of it warms his entire body, but not as much as the delighted, dazed smile on Dele's face. He takes a second to remember it, folds it up and keeps it in a special place in his heart, to bring it out again when this gets rough. Eric isn't in denial; he knows it will.

For now, though, that doesn't matter. He takes a step forward until they're pressed together; toe to toe, chest to chest, foreheads touching, and curves his palm around Dele's cheek. Pauses for a second to breathe, to watch the younger man's eyes flutter shut, dark lashes splayed across his skin. He can't wait anymore, it's like torture.

He fits their mouths together gently, barely the ghost of a kiss. Trying it on for size, and finding it fits comfortably, like it's something he should have always been doing. It's Dele who leans in this time, and the kiss is a bit deeper, a little more forceful, and the heat of it makes Eric's toes curl in his socks.

He kisses and kisses and kisses Dele, lets it spread through his body until he's feeling nothing but warm contentment, and all thoughts of the future have slipped from his mind. Because at the end, middle, and very beginning of it all, there's only really one thing:

Dele.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ [xherdansshaqiri](https://xherdansshaqiri.tumblr.com/) x


End file.
